


I Will Follow You

by Enochianess



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Comfort Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: “You swore I was going to be the first hero who was happy.” He says after a moment. “I… I am happy. At least if I shall die, I shall be happy.”“But I will not be.” Patroclus says, turning his face into Achilles’ hair.“You’re scared.”“Yes.”“I am too.”





	

_There is no glory in war, nothing poetic in the battlefield,_

_There is only fear, and greatest pain._

 

Patroclus sits, numbed, as the last of the men leave the tent. He looks over the bodies of the dead unseeingly and swallows hard. It seems that it gets more and more difficult everyday. The number of lives lost on this day alone has far surpassed his ability to count. There have been so many now that it seems impossible there is anyone left, yet the war rages on, and the bodies continue to mount. Patroclus was never meant for the battlegrounds, was never made for it like Achilles. For Achilles it is in his blood, in his very core. _Aristos Achaion._ To him, the best of the Greeks, war is but a game, the battlefield a playground with which to stretch his legs. He comes back to the tent every night, euphoric, pumping with adrenaline, a wide smile on his face, boasting of his kills, of his triumph. And Patroclus is glad for him, he really is. It’s good to see his friend so happy, so proud. But the prophecy is like watching a storm raging and rumbling over the hills towards them, not quite here yet, but ready to destroy everything in its path. It is coming, swift as Achilles’ feet, agile and angry as Achilles on the battlefield. The fates are aligning, death is looming, and Achilles does not seem to feel it. Or if he does, it does not seem to matter anymore. All he cares for is the glory, the enticing idea of being remembered as a hero for all eternity. Patroclus isn’t sure he cares anymore, not if it means losing his dear Achilles, his beloved. What is there in glory? To Achilles: everything.

“Come on.” Briseis says, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Let us get you back to your tent to rest.”

Patroclus walks with her silently, his eyes cast downwards, trusting Briseis to guide him. He can hear the men returning, the steady pounding of thousands of feet, the clinking and clanging of armor. Another day’s fighting come to a close.

When they step into the tent he looks around blankly, another rush of despair running through him. Achilles will be back soon, covered in blood, and Patroclus will clean him reverently, but it’ll tear at his insides. He can’t help but wonder if this is the day that Achilles will not return, leaving him alone. _He can’t leave me,_ Patroclus thinks desperately. _The gods fused our beings into one. I cannot exist without him._

“Leave me.” Patroclus tells Briseis.

“Are you—”

“Please.”

She nods and exits quietly, leaving Patroclus to think alone. He pulls his bloody tunic over his head, too hot and irritated by the material on his skin, and lowers himself to sit on the edge of their bed.

It seems like mere seconds before Achilles arrives, but he knows it must have been at least a half hour because the sun has begun to set and the men have returned to camp, parading past the tent.

“You do not look pleased to see me.” Achilles says with a frown.

Patroclus lowers himself onto his back and stares up at the top of the tent. “You know I am.”

“You should have seen me today. I must have killed hundreds, _thousands,_ more than I have managed before."

“I’m proud of you.”

Achilles takes off his armor and removes his tunic, then crawls over Patroclus and settles on top of him. He’s slick with sweat and Patroclus wrinkles his nose at the smell of it. “I am glad you were not there with me, even if I wish you had seen me.”

Patroclus looks up at him and swallows thickly, Achilles’ eyes green flecked with gold, just as bright and big and innocent as when they were children. Something twists painfully in Patroclus’ stomach and he feels his eyes sting with the threat of tears. He reaches up with shaky hands and cradles Achilles’ face, strokes his thumbs along his cheekbones, comforting them both.

“You’re filthy.” Patroclus murmurs, one hand sliding up to brush Achilles’ curls out of his eyes.

“I don’t want to wash.” Achilles says, leaning down to brush their lips together.

Patroclus whimpers, one arm winding around Achilles’ neck whilst the other slides down to press at his lower back. He cranes upward until he can press their lips together properly, relief and desperation washing over him in tandem. _He’s alive. He’s okay._

“I was not sure you would come back to me.”

“I’ll always come back.”

“You know as well as I that that isn’t true.”

Achilles shushes him softly, pushes up onto his forearms so he can look down at Patroclus. His hair hangs around them like a curtain, gold flecked with the bronze of dried blood. Achilles looks at him deeply, his eyes roaming over every inch of Patroclus’ face as if committing it to memory, as if he doesn’t already know every fleck and blemish. Patroclus feels tears beginning to pool in his own eyes and slams them shut, breathing out shakily when Achilles brushes their noses together.

“I do not see why I shall kill Hector. I still do not understand.”

Patroclus looks up again. “I do not either. But I do not think even you can outrun the fates.”

“What if my mother is wrong?” Achilles whispers.

“She rarely is. And if the prophecy does not come true, you will not be remembered as a hero like she said.”

Achilles mouth twists unhappily and he lowers himself down until his face is pressed into Patroclus’ neck. He mouths at the skin there for a moment, kisses and nips and licks. Patroclus can practically hear him thinking.

“You swore I was going to be the first hero who was happy.” He says after a moment. “I… I am happy. At least if I shall die, I shall be happy.”

“But I will not be.” Patroclus says, turning his face into Achilles’ hair.

“You’re scared.”

“Yes.”

“I am too.”

Patroclus wants to tell Achilles to stop fighting. He wants to ask him if they can go home, back to Mount Pelion, back to Phthia. He wants to splash and wrestle in the water, chase one another on the sand, laze around high up in the trees, lie with one another under the stars. He wants, but he cannot have. Time moves forward, not back.

Achilles begins to kiss up Patroclus’ throat, moving along his jaw until his mouth presses to Patroclus’ again. It’s soft, gentle, his chapped lips dragging and catching against Patroclus’ own. Then his tongue swipes along Patroclus’ bottom lip and Patroclus tips his head back and opens his mouth, letting Achilles lick inside eagerly. His breath tastes sweet on Patroclus’ tongue and Patroclus moans, turning his head for a better angle until their lips lock just right. _More, more, more,_ he would beg if he could bear to tear away for even a moment. _Achilles._

Patroclus gives out an undignified whine when Achilles pulls back, not caring that his lungs are screaming for air. His chest rises and falls quickly as he stares up at Achilles, who is looking back at him with half-lidded eyes, his lips swollen and bruised from kisses.

“Patroclus,” He whispers. _Pat-ro-clus._

“Do not stop.”

“Do you want—?”

“Yes.”

Achilles presses a brief kiss to Patroclus’ lips and then leans down to pick up the bottle of oil from the ground. He kisses his way down Patroclus’ body and Patroclus cannot help but arch into it and let his legs drop open to the sides, needy and ready. Achilles settles on his front between them, pressing his lips to the inside of both thighs. They do not usually do it this way. Achilles usually likes to take, but Patroclus needs this right now, needs to feel Achilles everywhere, to be encased by him. And of course, Achilles understands. He always understands.

Achilles taps over Patroclus’ opening tentatively, just gentle presses of his oiled finger that make Patroclus tense and relax in turn with anticipation. The first press inside feels strange, as always, but Patroclus relaxes into it immediately with a broken sigh. The friction is perfect. He presses his hips down, rocks against the digit until he’s loose enough for Achilles to add another. Achilles curls his fingers and pleasure strikes up Patroclus’ spine, makes him arch and scream silently. He looks down between his legs and his breath hitches when his eyes lock with Achilles’. Achilles’ face is flushed, a fresh bout of sweat spotting his brow and temples. He’s biting down harshly on his lip as he watches Patroclus, his own hips grinding down into the sheets.

“That’s enough. I’m ready.” Patroclus gasps. He’s going to come from this alone if Achilles does not stop.

Achilles is quick to remove his fingers, apologizing when Patroclus winces, and covers his cock with oil. He lies on top of Patroclus carefully, their eyes still locked. His eyebrows knit tightly as he presses slowly inside, his mouth dropping open into a small ‘O’. Patroclus clutches at his shoulders, wrapping his legs around Achilles’ waist and squeezing until Achilles presses as deeply as he can. Once their hips are flush, Achilles presses his forehead against Patroclus’ and pants into his mouth, tries to kiss him but it is barely more than a brushing of lips, a sharing of breath.

“Move.” Patroclus begs.

Achilles screws his eyes shut, pushing down even harder on Patroclus’ forehead. “I can’t. I’ll come.”

“I don’t care. I want you to.”

With a deep, shaky breath, Achilles pulls his hips back slowly and then drives forward with a much quicker stroke. Patroclus gasps, staring up at Achilles reverently.

“Look at me, Achilles.”

It seems like a struggle, but on his next press in, Achilles opens his eyes and stares back. He snaps his hips forward faster then, both of them crying out into the darkness, eyes of brown and green locked fiercely. Patroclus feels like he’s falling apart and when the next thrust hits that spot deep inside him that makes him scream, he scratches his nails down Achilles’ back harshly enough to leave welts. Emotion bubbles up sudden and strong inside Patroclus and he suddenly finds tears in his eyes once more, spilling over as he looks up at his beloved. Achilles’ face softens and he shifts back, pulling out slowly.

“No!” Patroclus protests.

Achilles shushes him gently and pulls Patroclus into his lap, guiding him up onto his knees and then down to sink back onto his cock. Patroclus pushes his face into the column of Achilles’ neck and lets his tears fall as Achilles helps guide him up and down, back and forth, his hips rolling slowly and gently.

“Don’t cry.” Achilles whispers.

Patroclus takes a deep breath and then shudders as the next thrust brushes up against his prostate. He fucks himself back down when Achilles snaps his hips, trying his best to find the angle again. When he finds it he cries out, his fingernails digging crescents into the back of Achilles’ neck.

“Patroclus, I’ve got to— I need—”

“Yes.”

Achilles slams up, each thrust faster and faster now, his teeth locking down on Patroclus’ shoulder.

“Achilles, I’m— I’m—”

“Come.”

Shaking violently, Patroclus’ does, his eyes still locked with Achilles’ fever bright ones. He clenches down hard as he cries out and Achilles yells in response, tensing up beneath Patroclus as he spills inside him. They clutch each other tightly, panting into each other’s mouths, not looking away for one second. Achilles’ eyes are so filled with love, but also such sorrow. Patroclus kisses his cheek, his temple, his forehead.

“It’s okay.” He whispers. 

Achilles shudders and tucks his head beneath Patroclus’ chin. “I do not want you to be sad.”

“Then don’t let me go. Let us stay here like this forever.”

“There’s a war to be won.”

“But you can’t win it. Let us go home. I want us to go home.”

Achilles pulls back and looks up at Patroclus again. “I cannot leave. You know that.”

“You enjoy fighting.”

“Yes. But that is not why. If I leave, it will be a slaughter. This is my fate, Patroclus. You know as well as I that we cannot outrun the fates’ design.”

Patroclus leans down and kisses Achilles hard on the mouth. “I will be right behind. When you do, I will be right behind.”

Achilles shakes his head. “I do not want you to die.”

“But I cannot live in a world without you in it.” Patroclus whispers against his lips.

Achilles stares at him, his eyes wide and shining. “You will die for me? Follow me into the afterlife?”

“I will. You know that.”

“I would for you too.”

“I know.” Patroclus says, brushing his thumb back and forth along Achilles’ jaw. "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://enochianess.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you liked it, please leave kudos or comments!


End file.
